


sugar on your lips

by Anonymous



Category: Clone High
Genre: Dom/sub, F/M, Femdom, Pegging, Praise Kink, Roleplay, degradation kink, no beta we die like men, no proofreading either
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 12:07:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29313828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: She had a type, after all. Be it the leftover notions of someone who was worshipped as holy, or the rage she felt for being cast so low by shallow people, Joan had always wanted someone that loved her on their knees.
Relationships: JFK/Joan of Arc (Clone High)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 49
Collections: Anonymous





	sugar on your lips

**Author's Note:**

> never watched clone high
> 
> just saw a yt compilation of them and decided they were best
> 
> this is my first smut and has been written in an hour at 3 am
> 
> please excuse me if it isn’t good

Joan never realized just how sweet JFK could be.

When he wasn’t trying to fill the shoes of a dead man and playing out the role of the popular jock, JFK was lovely enough that Joan wanted to keep him forever. 

She had a type, after all. Be it the leftover notions of someone who was worshipped as holy, or the rage she felt for being cast so low by shallow people, Joan had always wanted someone that loved her on their knees.

She thought she could find that someone in Abe, in someone who was an outcast, just like her, and knew what it meant. But Abe knew nothing, and the still waters she tried to dive into turned out to be only ankle-deep. She had been disappointed, by Abe, by herself.

Joan had always thought herself above the stereotype, the word of mouth, the mold made by generations of dumb people, dead and alive. But she wasn’t, not really. If she was, she would have known, from the get-go, that men like Abe weren’t worth half the effort they saw themselves entitled to.

It was truly embarrassing, the way she treated a cheap knock-off like some rare treasure.

She was glad that JFK was as persistent as he was. The way he went about wooing her left much to be desired, of course, but at least he was earnest about it. More than anything, it was his unassuming moments of sincerity that won her over in the end. She thought it might have something to do with his parents and the unashamed way they lived and loved each other.

Whatever the reason, JFK was arrogant, frivolous, and very, very sweet, once you dug into the core of him. 

And Joan dug. Hard and relentless, she took him apart. With each new layer peeled aside, Joan found herself wanting him more. The way he bowed and bent under her hands was as sweet and intoxicating as wine. JFK was everything she had wanted in Abe and more.

Her intensity might have turned off any other man with their prison of fragile masculinity. Abe, the flawed friend she was getting to know and not the idealized version of her dream man, would have certainly tried to assert dominance. But JFK responded to her very, very well.

Like an overexcited puppy that didn’t know the meaning of the word shame, he swooned and sighed and moaned, loud and childish in his glee. 

Reducing the manwhore of her school into a stuttering mess was now Joan’s favorite pastime. He was the sweetest when he couldn’t think, so she made sure to steal that ability from him as often as possible.

The first few times they hooked up, she let him have her as he wanted, fucking her into the mattress with tricks he’d learned with hundred other girls. Letting him do what was familiar and safe, high on the euphoria of doing it with the one he adored. 

Then she flipped the game.

Instead of the whispers of ‘harder’ and ‘deeper’ that JFK seemed to take as a personal achievement, Joan started to give him praises. She called him hers and good and puppy, and felt him shudder and _whine_ as he came harder than ever.

When he came down, dazed and pliant, she petted him like one would pet a baby. Gentle but firm, she arranged JFK so he was in her arms instead of the other way around and didn’t let him move an inch. He sighed like he’d found true bliss and dozed off in a minute.

Then, in the morning, she let herself take him, the way he needed to be taken. She rode him with legs that didn’t tire, the genes of a warrior woman that went down in history. Rode him, until he trashed, cried and begged, more, more, _more—_

To quiet him, Joan shoved three fingers into his mouth and mimicked his cock inside her, going in and out, in and out. Her boy started wailing by then, muffled, hips spasming. When she tried to take back her fingers, his mouth followed, teeth biting down. So she shoved it back harder, deeper, fingertips grazing the back of his throat, leaving him a drooling mess.

When he came, the fourth time, his voice was ruined.

The week following, JFK made a fuss about catching a cold leaving his window open, a very convenient and smart excuse made no doubt by one of his dads, and blushed cherry-red whenever Joan fiddled with her fingers.

Between lessons and lunch breaks, he dragged her into empty classrooms. People hooted and hollered if they saw him, and he responded to each jeer with a leer, a jock through and through. But when the doors closed, and they were alone, he went down on his knees hard and quick enough to get bruises. 

Joan started wearing skirts to school for those bruises. 

Her boy ate her out like he was a man feasting after a week of fasting. The first few times, he had been teasing, going from slow and to less slow, intent on breaking her apart. Now, he did it to earn his praises, to let Joan use his mouth like a remote-controlled toy and get hair tugs and murmurs of ‘Good boy’ in return. 

And if he was really, _really_ good, she fucked his throat with her fingers and let him rut against her thigh.

Truly, he loved her best when he was on his knees, looking up at her with teary eyes, and Joan couldn’t be happier about it.

But how did Joan love him best?

It would be when he was on all fours, face down and ass up, Joan fucking him with a dildo, big, thick and the same milky color as her skin. 

Sometimes, she’d do the fucking with her hands, slow and grinding, and watch him dissolve into a mewling mess. She’d pepper his red neck and ears in kisses and whisper words of adoration, like ‘sweet thing’, like ‘good pup’ and let him sway into them. 

Other times, she’d strap the dildo on her hips and give it to him rough and fast, wringing punched-out gasps out of him with each thrust. Then, she’d shove his face down the pillow, lower her voice into a husky growl and call herself a John and JFK a cheap slut.

She knew, if she actually had a cock, she’d feel it get squeezed by his greedy hole.

In the end, slow and sweet, or rough and fast, she’d have a fucked-out JFK too dazed to do anything by himself. Joan would lead him to the showers and wash him with gentle hands as he curled into her, sweet. She’d dry him with a fluffy towel, watching him giggle when it tickled, and then take him back to bed.

Laying down, he’d immediately seek her out, burrowing into her arms and hiding his face between her neck and shoulder. He’d whisper _thank you_ and _love you_ , sweet, sweet, _sweet_ , and conk out.

He wouldn’t hear anything, but Joan would lay her cheek against his hair and whisper them back.


End file.
